Stone-cold (or, Confessions Of A Stoic)

stone-cold (or, confessions of a stoic)

             Charlie’s always attracted danger.

             Two parts his nature, one part Aunt Miranda’s stories, and one part his dad’s adventures.

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Ooooh fic prompts! What do you think of 48. Rampage, with Ronon and Sheppard from SGA (not a ship, I like their relationship as it is :) ). Angsty, preferably ;) like Ronon goes on a rampage after something happens to Sheppard maybe 🤔🥺

Thanks in advance :D

*screeching* *sounds of a chair breaking somewhere* COME IN COME IN OH MY A  C U S T O M E R

Thank you so much for the prompt!! I hope you enjoy this!

The one time the jumper had dropped them off at a previous suspected uninhabited area of the planet—the one time—they had to run into an angry mob of villagers who, after a few questions that in hindsight could have been phrased a bit better, mistakened them for Wraith worshipers—oh, and they had guns.

Ronon and John had made it into a small clearing after calling for the jumper to come back, and held their ground relatively well before... somehow, Ronon knew what was about to happen before it did. Maybe it was because he had been half-anticipating it ever since John had been forced to ditch his bulletproof vest after it got caught in a trap—but despite this, he hadn’t fully considered it could actually happen. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the mob take aim and pull a trigger.

“Sheppard!” he yelled, running toward the other man as fast as he could. He wasn’t fast enough. Even after years and years and years of running, he was fast enough. It happened almost in a slowed way, like the action movies that John was obsessed with—in a way, it was sickeningly ironic. He watched in horror as the bullet pierced his chest and John stumbled back at the impact, before collapsing to his knees, a stunned look on his face. The world sped up again and Ronon grabbed him and ran for cover, sitting him up behind a rock. The blood had already started soaking the front of John’s shirt, slick on his hands, marking everything with red. John choked back a cough as his breath stuttered, his hands scrambling against his chest in an attempt to stop the bleeding, stop the pain, anything. Ronon replaced John’s hands on the wound and muttered an apology as John hissed at the pressure. If John noticed that his hands were shaking, he said nothing. They both flinched as a new round of attack started up.

“Can’t they stop for a damn minute?” John groaned. Ronon glanced up nervously as the gunfire moved closer. John coughed again, his eyes squeezing shut against the pain, and blood dripped down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, but when he tried to breathe in there was a sickening rattling sound, and he couldn’t prevent another cough. The gunfire kept getting nearer and nearer. Bullets were ricocheting off of the rock. Ronon could hear their whoops of celebration that they had hit one, their cries of “let’s finish him off!”—not on his life—and something inside of him snapped, releasing a roar that was more animal than human. John jumped at the sound but Ronon paid him no heed, grabbing his gun and leaping out from behind their cover. His vision was tainted with red, and blood rushed past his ears as he shot down man after man, unwilling and unable to show any mercy. Those that ventured too close to him were quickly disposed of by his blade. His only thoughts were to protect John, and to make them pay for what they did to him, for taking joy in what they did to him. Bodies were soon strewn around the field; each one injured, dead, or dying. He stood in the middle of it all, breathing hard, his nostrils flaring and a wild look in his eye as he survived his work. A branch cracked and he whipped his gun around, almost pulling the trigger and shooting Teyla.

“It is just me!” she yelled. Ronon hesitated before lowering his weapon. Teyla swept her eyes around the field, then back to Ronon, her expression changing to something almost similar to fear.

“What did you do?” she asked. Ronon shook his head, running back to the rock where John was safely hidden. His stomach dropped as he saw that John’s eyes were closed.

“He’s—he’s not awake anymore,” he said, fear clawing at his throat and nearly throttling the words before they made it out. Teyla nodded, her brow creasing in a worried frown.

“Bring him this way, quickly!” she ordered. Ronon scooped his friend up as gently as possible, hurrying after Teyla. She led him to the jumper in a nearby clearing, and they quickly loaded up and headed to the gate.

“We’re ten minutes out, do you think he can make it that long?” the pilot asked. Ronon didn’t recognize him, but allowed him receive the full force of his glare at the fact that he would even suggest such a thing; but as the pilot shrank back in his chair, the fear of the situation pummeled at Ronon’s mind. He slid down the wall, cradling his friend protectively, a childlike superstition deep inside that it would be somehow enough to protect John from the clutches of death. Teyla passed him some pads and he automatically pressed them to the hole in John’s chest, the wheezing breaths both alarming and comforting him. Every second was too long, but yet somehow Ronon wasn’t quite sure exactly when the had reached Atlantis—suddenly it was too loud, too bright, too many hands pulling and grabbing for John—he growled, wrapping himself tighter around his friend.

“It’s alright, lad, we’re here to help him,” he heard someone say urgently. Beckett. He released John’s limp body instantly and it was carted away in the blink of an eye. He watched them leave, a hollow feeling inside of him. All he could smell was the blood. It coated his hands, his shirt—he wasn’t even sure how much of it was John’s, and how much was from... from... he dropped his head, his mind reeling as he remembered his rampage, how each of the bodies dropped to the ground—it had just been a misunderstanding on their part—how many had been innocent?

“Ronon?” Teyla asked carefully, crouching in front of him. He glanced at her for only a moment before looking back down, unable to meet her eyes. “I... I will have to make a report,” she said gently, “I do not know what Dr. Weir will say, but I know that you acted in self-defense.” But did he? He stood abruptly, stalking out of the jumper.

After cleaning himself up—there was so much blood—he resolutely parked himself in a chair by John’s bedside, despite being told he probably wouldn’t wake for a few hours. The image of his bloodied and limp body refused to leave him, and he took comfort in watching the rise and fall of John’s chest, in hearing the steady beeping of the machines that told him his friend was still alive. Dr. Weir stopped by to let him know she had received Teyla’s report; she consented that it had been a matter of self-defense, but he saw the same unease behind her eyes that had been in Teyla’s, and they both knew it had been something more than just self-defense. Grimly, Ronon resigned himself to that fact—but as he watched John resting peacefully in the hospital bed, he knew he would do it all over again in a heartbeat.

@sellthebeamer my dear friend, I saw this and thought of you 😘

Angst!! Angst and Hurt/Comfort!!

They’re some of the most fun fanworks to both create and consume!! In the interest of inspiring some lovely, lovely angsty works, I’ve come up with a month long prompt list starting on September 1st! Welcome to Angstember!!!

This prompt list is multi-fandom, and if you’re interested in participating and sharing, please use the tag #angstember2021 (I really want to be able to see all of your stuff)!

I’ve also set up a little collection on AO3 for anyone who’d like to add their works! https://archiveofourown.org/collections/angstember_2021

I can’t wait to see all of the glorious, glorious angst that we come up with!! (also a huge thanks to @moveslikebucky for making the beautiful graphics for this event!)

Hudson & Rex 3.09 (2021)

Hey i’m a fashion design student so i have tons and tons of pdfs and docs with basic sewing techniques, pattern how-tos, and resources for fabric and trims. I’ve compiled it all into a shareable folder for anyone who wants to look into sewing and making their own clothing. I’ll be adding to this folder whenever i come across new resources

https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/16uhmMb8kE4P_vOSycr6XSa9zpmDijZSd?usp=sharing

I feel like there’s needs to be, like, handbook for authors who post on Ao3 for effective metatext.

By metatext I mean like tagging, summary, and authors notes (especially initial authors notes at the beginning of a fic). The means by which we communicate to our readers what they’re getting into.

Because we kind of all have to learn it by osmosis and there are conventions but nobody’s really taught them at the start, so there’s inconsistencies and misunderstandings or people just not knowing things through no fault of their own.

This ends up breeding frustration and confusion and in the worst cases resentment, hurt, and aggression.

I’m severely tempted to make such a handbook and get it circulating.

I think it would do fandom a lot of good.